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Thursday, October 21, 2010

It's that feeling in my throat - around my throat, rather - that something is choking me. I open my mouth to speak and the words never make it to the surface. I sit and stare off into space waiting for the moment to come when I can utter a complete thought or sentence.

I am broken.

The drugs haven't been a secret. Anyone and everyone knows I started them. I never wanted there to be a stigma with it, and I wanted my family to be aware that I want to be better. I want to always be better for them.

Kevin asked me today where this was before he knew me. Where did I hide the crazy? Not in those words, mind you.

The answer was easy. I burned a lot of bridges. I snapped to a lot of judgments. I stayed out too late. I made bad decisions. I smoked too much, any is that, and I drank too much. Self deprecation and self medication. Survival.

I don't want to be broken.

I sang a song at the Type A Mom Conference. A Julie Miller song called "Broken Things". I always think of it as a song I've come through, but lately, I'm realizing that it's a song I'll always just be.

So beyond repairNothing I could doTried to fix it myselfBut it was only worse when I got through

It's a God song, but a life song as well. I do try to fix everything myself. I'm not unlike my two year old in the number of times I say, "I do it myself," a day.

Monday, I determined that my boys would be better off without me. While they napped, I mapped out a plan for my departure. I would disappear into thin air. I would stop by and see a best friend and then vanish into Canada or some other vast wilderness.

It was absurd.

Instead of booking my flight, I called my midwife group. Asked for help. Made an appointment. Then I got up and took my boys for a walk. Scooter and wagon up the street in my pajamas. Because I was still wearing them at 4:45 in the afternoon. I'm not proud of that; I just own it. I felt better.

Then Tuesday, I got a haircut. I don't know what possessed me, but I decided I needed bangs and layers. I could tell my hairdresser was hesitant, and she was right. It's awful. My hair is the worst it's been in years. I can't stand to look at myself in the mirror.

Something that was supposed to pick me up just kicked me to the ground. Simple things that will grow back and be alright seem to be the end of the world.

It's all just so damn heavy.

I don't know where up is anymore. It's somewhere, and I'll find it. But I'm not sure how. Not by myself, that's for sure.